PREVIOUSLY ON CLASS 24
Nesshou Genta's clash with Kagutsuchi left scars deeper than the battlefield. Even in chains, he proved the fire inside him was not just the monster's curse, but a power he could claim as his own. Yet doubt remains—Daichi and the council still question whether the boy or the ancient flame truly holds control.
Meanwhile, SSUB revealed a hidden truth. Kenzo named someone long kept from the world: Tensei Arakawa, son of the white-robed councilman. Hanari, Reiji, Kurai, and Ibuki were chosen to watch over him, their task weighed with suspicion and unease.
Their first encounter told them everything—silver hair, quiet strength, and a presence that unsettled even Ibuki with nothing more than a passing step.
And as the council gathered in silence, the chamber doors opened. The boy they had sheltered stepped into the light, raised his gaze to the man at the head of the council, and spoke his first words:
"Hello, Father."
The chamber was so still that the torches along the walls crackled louder than breath. Dozens of robed councilmen leaned forward, shadows stretching across the crescent table as the boy stood at its center.
The man in white—silver hair spilling over his shoulders, eyes like frozen steel—narrowed his gaze. His voice broke the silence, low but heavy with restrained fury.
"Arakawa Tensei… what are you doing here?"
The boy's lips curved, but it was no smile. His silver hair glinted in the light as he met his father's stare without flinching.
"What, no welcome? You don't seem pleased to see me, Father."
The words struck like iron on stone, sharp and deliberate. Murmurs rippled through the chamber, the council shifting in their seats.
The man's jaw tightened. With a subtle flick of his hand, two armored guards stepped forward, halberds lowering as they advanced.
"You were not summoned. You are not meant to stand here—not until after dawn."
The boy tilted his head, his expression calm, almost amused, though the weight in his gaze pressed on the room like a storm gathering.
"And yet… here I am."
The tension snapped tight. Even the guards hesitated, caught between the command of their master and the unnerving presence of the son he had long kept hidden.
The guards stepped forward, metal boots ringing against the stone floor. Their halberds gleamed as they lowered them toward Tensei's shoulders.
Then it hit them.
A pressure—silent, unseen, but suffocating—rolled off the silver-haired boy like a tidal wave. The air thickened, humming with a force that clawed at the lungs. Both guards froze mid-step. Their weapons trembled in their hands, rattling against their armor as their knees threatened to buckle.
Tensei didn't move. He only let his gaze drift lazily across the chamber, his voice quiet but sharp enough to slice through the silence.
"Relax. I'm not here to cause havoc." His eyes shifted back to the man in white. "I only came to see how my pops is doing. And from the looks of it…" his smirk deepened, "…I wouldn't say you're doing too well."**
A ripple of unease passed through the council. The man at the head of the table kept his posture rigid, but the veins in his hand pressed white against the armrest. His son's words struck deeper than any blade.
Tensei turned, the weight of his presence easing as he made for the doors. Each step echoed, deliberate and unhurried.
At the threshold, he paused—without looking back.
"Keep sitting upright, Father." His tone was mocking, but edged with something darker. "Don't shake… not because of your son."
The doors groaned shut behind him, leaving the chamber in a silence far heavier than before.
The great doors closed with a low thud, sealing the silver-haired boy's departure. For a long, stifling moment, no one dared breathe. The torches crackled against the silence, their flames wavering as if they too had felt the boy's presence.
Then, like cracks in stone, whispers began to ripple through the crescent hall.
"That pressure… it wasn't human."
"He made the guards falter without lifting a finger…"
"If that is the chairman's son, then…"
The murmurs overlapped, growing sharper, more restless. Even those who prided themselves on composure shifted in their seats, their robes rustling like restless wings.
Finally, a voice cut above the rest, firm but edged with doubt.
"Is this truly wise?" A black-robed councilman leaned forward, his shadow stretching across the table. "Chairman Arakawa, is your decision to release him into the open world… really the best path?"
Others nodded; their unease no longer hidden.
"The boy is dangerous."
"A presence like that cannot be controlled."
"If even you shake before him, Chairman—what hope does the rest of the world have?"
The chamber darkened with distrust, the weight of their fear circling like vultures. All eyes returned to the man in white, waiting for an answer—an answer that even he seemed unwilling, or perhaps unable, to give.
The chamber's silence fractured again, this time with harsher words.
"We already have one beast locked beneath these halls," a hooded figure hissed, voice sharp with accusation. "Why would we risk making it two?"
A rumble of agreement followed, murmurs swelling into dissonance.
"Yes… one cursed vessel is burden enough."
"We bleed resources watching over Nesshou Genta, and now—this?"
"To loose another threat upon the world is not guidance, Chairman—it is folly."
The weight of their judgment pressed heavy, each voice adding to the storm. The silver-haired man at the head of the table remained unmoving, his face unreadable beneath the lantern glow. Yet the faint twitch of his fingers on the armrest betrayed the storm beneath his calm.
"Two beasts in chains…" another councilman muttered bitterly, "…or worse—two beasts unchained. Do you intend to gamble the fate of us all, Arakawa?"
The words hung, sharp and merciless, the entire council waiting for the chairman's reply.
The storm of voices filled the chamber, each word cutting deeper, each accusation heavier. For a moment, it seemed even the torches themselves bowed beneath the weight of doubt.
Then—silence.
The chairman finally moved, the faintest shift as his hand lifted from the armrest. His silver gaze swept across the hall, calm but unreadable, his presence enough to still the room without force.
When he spoke, his words were few—measured, final.
"Time will tell."
Nothing more.
The council stiffened, some biting back further protest, others bowing their heads in reluctant obedience. The air remained thick with unease, but no one dared challenge him further.
The man's hand lowered again, his voice low but absolute.
"This meeting is dismissed."
The echo of his decree lingered as chairs scraped and robes rustled. One by one, the councilmen filed out, their whispers slithering through the cold air like smoke. Yet beneath the weight of their fear and suspicion, one truth remained—
The chairman had spoken… but even he had not promised control.
The chairman rose from his seat, the sweep of his white robe trailing behind him as he turned from the crescent table. His footsteps echoed against the stone floor—measured, unhurried, carrying no sign of doubt.
The great doors opened. Then closed.
Silence remained.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. The absence of his presence was almost louder than his voice had been. Then the chamber stirred, whispers cutting sharp through the air.
"What was he thinking…?" one councilman muttered, his hands clenched against the table.
"To dismiss us with so little… as if time alone can shield us from what that boy carries."
"This is dangerous. Reckless."
The whispers grew, spilling into anxious voices.
"Two monsters, one in chains, one walking free…"
"If they join, if the balance breaks… this could be our end."
The firelight trembled as though it too shared their unease. Shadows danced across the council chamber, twisting long and thin, like omens stretching over the floor.
One voice rose above the rest, quiet but filled with dread.
"I only pray… the chairman has not doomed us all."
The chamber fell into heavy silence once more, each man lost in thoughts he dared not speak aloud.
The chairman's footsteps echoed through the corridor, steady and unbroken. From the shadows ahead, Daichi stepped into view, his posture rigid with discipline.
He stopped squarely before the man in white, heels striking the stone in unison. With a fluid motion, he brought his right fist to his chest, bowing his head just enough to honor without lowering himself.
His voice carried firm, clear, and unwavering, filling the hall with the weight of rank:
"Daichi Kurogane—Commander of Class 23, Captain of the Knights, Division Three—salutes the Chairman."
The words hung in the air, heavy with loyalty and steel.
The chairman's silver gaze lingered on him only a moment, unreadable as ever, before he passed by without a word.
Daichi held his salute until the echo of those footsteps faded into silence.
The chairman's steps slowed, his robe brushing the stone as his silver eyes shifted toward Daichi. For the first time, his voice broke the silence—measured, calm, and commanding.
"At ease, soldier."
Daichi straightened from his salute, dropping his fist from his chest. His posture relaxed slightly, but his stance still bore the steel of discipline.
The chairman's tone remained even.
"What is it you want, Commander?"
Daichi's gaze held steady, his words firm but edged with concern.
"I have been observing Criminal 101—the cell you assigned to Nesshou Genta." He drew a short breath, as though weighing every syllable. "And I have something to say."
The corridor seemed to narrow around them, the torchlight bending under the weight of the moment.
The night had settled thick and quiet across the quarters of Class 24. Lanterns burned low in the corridors, their glow guiding the students to their assigned cabins. The shuffle of feet, the creak of doors, and the murmured complaints of the tired filled the air before silence gradually took hold.
The boys were split into two rooms—eight in each.
In the first cabin, Yami Ibuki dropped onto his bunk with a sigh, eyes closed as though he owned the space. Shirakawa Reiji folded his arms neatly at the bedside, while Hayato Minami laughed softly at Itsuki Morozawa's muttering about the hard mattress. Takumi Ishida adjusted his sheets with precision, while Riku Hayasaka stretched long and tired, his brotherly bond pulling Souta Kiryuu and Reon Kazama into quiet conversation before all three drifted to rest.
The second cabin carried a different energy. Ryuuya Inoue leaned against the wall, listening to the faint snores already escaping from Kaito Okabe. Shunpei Takahata whispered a last joke before rolling over, earning a sharp "keep it down" from Renjiro Hatanaka. Takeru Noguchi lay straight as a soldier, unbothered by the noise, while Akihiko Matsuda rested heavy, exhausted from the day. In the corner, Naoya Fujikawa twitched at every sound in his sleep, while Makoto Ishikawa clenched one hand into a fist against his pillow, even in dreams holding to discipline.
Across the grounds, three cabins housed the girls.
The first room was lively even as the lantern dimmed. Anjō Hanari whispered something that made Kurai Sumika hide a smile, while Emi Kawahara and Misaki Aozora pulled their blankets high, stifling giggles. Hanae Sugisaki yawned dramatically, earning a roll of the eyes from Rika Mizuno, while Mei Tachibana hummed softly before sleep finally claimed them all.
The second cabin was quieter, steadier. Nozomi Fukuda tucked her books neatly under the bed. Sayaka Morinaga stretched out with a sigh, Nanami Hirose already asleep before the room had settled. Airi Kobayashi offered a soft "good night" that faded as Ayame Saitou and Kaori Endou traded a few quiet words, while Miyako Tanabe simply curled up and turned away, lost in thought.
The third cabin breathed calm. Haruna Kitagawa prayed silently at her bedside before laying down. Mizuki Honda was the first to fall asleep, while Keina Shimizu and Sumire Nakahara whispered secrets under the blankets. Arisa Yamamoto sprawled carelessly, earning a soft laugh from Hikari Motegi, while Aoi Hayasaka curled tight under her sheets, the faintest smile on her lips as she slipped into dreams.
The quarters of Class 24 grew still. Forty voices faded to the steady rhythm of sleep. Yet beneath the silence, something unspoken hung in the air, the weight of what tomorrow might bring.
Morning light cut through the tall windows of Class 24's lecture hall, washing the desks in pale gold. The hum of chatter and yawns filled the air until—
BANG!
The door slammed open.
"GOOD MORNING, TROUBLEMAKERS!"
Kenzo stormed in like a whirlwind, cloak flying behind him, his grin wide as ever. He struck a pose at the front—only to trip on the step and nearly topple forward.
The class erupted in laughter.
"Don't laugh! That was a tactical stumble," he declared, puffing out his chest. "Builds character!"
The giggles softened the air. Even those who usually rolled their eyes at him—Ibuki with his scowl, Reiji with his cool stare—couldn't hide the faint curve at their lips. Kenzo scribbled nonsense equations on the board, tossed chalk in lazy arcs, and wagged his finger like an old master.
"Lesson one: how to nap without being noticed. Rule number one—hide behind Reiji. He's tall enough to block an army."
More laughter. The tension from the night before seemed almost gone.
Then—
The door opened again.
The sound was soft, but it swallowed the room whole. Silence fell instantly.
Through the threshold stepped Chairman Arakawa. His white robe glimmered faintly under the light, silver hair cascading over his shoulders like liquid steel. Each step echoed deliberate, measured, final. At his side strode Captain Daichi, armored and steady, his gaze fixed ahead. Behind them, robed higher-ups followed, their presence as heavy as stone pressing into the floor.
Kenzo's grin vanished. He straightened in a heartbeat, heels together, fist to chest in a crisp salute.
"Class, rise!"
Chairs scraped. The room shifted as one. Forty bodies stood tall, fists pressed firmly to hearts. The salute rang like steel when their voices answered together:
"Class 24 reporting, sir!"
Arakawa did not immediately speak. He stood at the front, his eyes gliding slowly across the rows. One by one, each student felt that gaze—sharp, cold, lingering just long enough to draw a bead of sweat or steal the breath from their lungs.
Ibuki clenched his jaw, refusing to flinch. Hanari's hand twitched faintly at her side. Even Reiji, calm as ever, shifted his weight as though the stare pressed heavier than chains.
Arakawa's hand lifted slowly. The room held its breath. The faint rustle of his robe, the echo of boots behind him, even the crackle of torches in their brackets—all sounded louder than words.
Finally, his voice broke the silence. Calm. Even. Yet heavy enough to weigh on every chest in the room.
"Today…" He let the word linger, his gaze sweeping once more. "…we bring before you two students. One—a classmate returning, though still on probation. The other… new among you."
Gasps broke loose. Whispers crackled instantly.
"A returning one?"
"On probation?"
"Who could it be…?"
Arakawa raised a single hand. The voices died as quickly as they rose.
"Enter, Arakawa Tensei."
Whispers erupted again—
"Arakawa's son?"
"The chairman's own blood?"
"He's here… in our class?"
The boy stepped forward, silver hair catching the light, his quiet stride pressing invisible weight into the room. Yami Ibuki's eyes narrowed at once, recognition sparking rage in his chest. That shove. That fall. That humiliation. His fists clenched until his knuckles went white.
At the front, Chairman Arakawa spoke calmly.
"This is Arakawa Tensei. He will be joining you this year. I expect you all to get along."
He turned as if to leave, robe whispering across the floor—but Daichi stepped forward, bowing his head.
"Sir… you've forgotten."
Arakawa paused, irritation flashing faintly before his composure returned.
"Ah… yes." His gaze swept back to the class, words slower, heavier. "Your returning classmate—the flame child. He is still under care. The dungeon has been his home for quite some time."
The class erupted.
"The flame kid?"
"He's dangerous—why bring him back here?"
"This is madness!"
Fear rippled through the room, spilling into open disagreement. Voices rose, the hall trembling with the uproar—until Chairman Arakawa's eyes opened fully.
The silence that followed was instant. Crushing.
His voice came steady, like steel striking stone.
"Captain Daichi has voluntarily given his time—and his life—to oversee this boy. Should anything happen… he knows the penalty."
Daichi's jaw tightened, but his salute was firm, absolute. Not a word of protest escaped him.
Chairman Arakawa turned once more, robe trailing as he reached the door. But before leaving, he paused, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade:
"Genta and Tensei in the same class… this ought to be fun."
And with that, Chairman Arakawa departed, leaving Class 24 frozen in fear and disbelief.
NESSGEEORIGINAL